


Yours If You Want It, Yours If You Don't

by vellaphoria



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Confessions, Fluff, M/M, Making Out, Minor Injuries, Snark, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 13:36:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20931101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vellaphoria/pseuds/vellaphoria
Summary: Tim's ready to try this whole partnership thing again.Dick's ready to try something more.





	Yours If You Want It, Yours If You Don't

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jescher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jescher/gifts).

The GCPD is hauling Harley back to Arkham by the time Red Robin realizes how much it _hurts_ to put weight on his left leg.

Gingerly, he tries lifting his right leg a bit off the rooftop. Pain spikes through his left ankle, and Red has to catch himself on the side of the building’s roof access to keep from collapsing.

_“Shit_,” he mutters, emphatically. He’d known something was _off_ with that landing.

Close combat with Harley has never been _easy_, per se. But since she kicked Joker to the curb, she’s really come into her own.

Red’s happy for her, really. It’s one step closer to breaking the downward spiral of psychosis that most of Batman’s rogues gallery is caught in.

If only her path to mental health involved a hobby other than robbing banks. Or, if she could rob them with just a _little_ less enthusiasm for swinging a giant mallet at unsuspecting vigilantes.

Red had ducked and covered _just _in time, but in a rare moment of spatial unawareness, rolling out of the way of _that_ bullshit sent him careening off a low rooftop and into a landing for which his body had been _very _underprepared_._

Of course, he’d still nabbed her in the end. He once got stabbed in the abdomen, lost a pint of blood, and _still_ managed to drag himself and Pru several miles through the desert. It takes a _bit_ more than a sprained ankle to slow him down.

Again, Red tries putting weight on his left leg. The pain is sharp enough that he should probably be glad it isn’t broken.

With a resigned sigh, he shifts back to his right leg. His back meets the wall, and Red lets himself sink down against the stonework. Despite his layers of spandex and body armor, the masonry still gives off the faint impression of coolness.

Six years ago, Red would have probably given himself a handful of painkillers and a ten-minute break for them to kick in. Then, he would have been right back to his patrol with no one the wiser. No one would have noticed.

Or, not quite. These days, Red’s done enough self-reflection to know that back then he wouldn’t have _let_ anyone notice. He’d perfected the art of walking almost normally even when hurt to all hell. He’d have minimized his time in the cave – only stopping in for a quick check-in before retreating to one of his off-grid safehouses to nurse his wounds. And all the while he would have quietly resented the rest of them for not seeing through the deception that he’d put so much effort into upholding.

Red likes to think he treats his health and his teammates less callously these days.

It’s not that they hadn’t done anything to _earn_ his ire or his avoidance. But in the six years since Bruce was lost in time, Red has learned a thing or two about forgiveness.

There’s a peace between them now: the rest of the Bats don’t interfere with his operations or disregard his personal autonomy, and in return he agrees to _perhaps pay a visit now and again, Master Timothy, if only so that you might consume something _other_ than caffeine._

Which is an exaggeration, of course.

…but he’s willing to concede that Alfred _might_ have a point.

Just to be _sure_ that dealing with this on his own is a bad idea, Red tests the range of motion in his foot. He can turn most of the way to the right without much of an issue. But when Red twists it to the left, he has to suck in a sharp breath at the hot pain that lances through his lower leg.

Yep. He’s done for the night.

If he _really_ wanted to limp his way out of this, the boots would probably keep him together long enough for him to reach one of his safehouses. They’re built with this sort of thing in mind, after all. The design choice had been one of his last few concessions to his tendency to lone wolf it even when he shouldn’t, back when he first built the current version of the Red Robin getup.

A twinge of pain makes itself known in Red’s ankle even though he hadn’t moved it.

He sighs, letting his head fall back against the wall.

Before he can really think about it, one of his hands is halfway to the Gotham-frequency earpiece he’d reluctantly agreed to wear. He pulls the hand back, hesitating for a moment. Telling the Bats that he’s even a _little_ bit hurt is roughly equivalent to squeezing all the toothpaste out of a tube.

Which is to say, there’s no going back. 

He’s not entirely sure when he started being okay with that.

This time, he presses the button.

“This is Red,” he says. The faint crackle of static echoes in his ear. “Anyone in the Downtown area?”

They’re all out tonight, so the odds of one vigilante or another picking up are pretty even.

Well, maybe not Robin. Even now, they tend to not take each other’s calls unless there’s _literally_ no one else.

The line clicks.

“Nightwing here. Need a hand?”

Red bites back a groan. For an injury pickup, Nightwing is somehow simultaneously the best and worst person to have answered.

“Sorta. Harley’s on her way back to Arkham and the bank is fine. My ankle got a bit busted up in the fight though, so I could use a ride.”

He can almost _hear_ the concern coming from the short silence on Nightwing’s end.

“It’s _fine_,” Red insists. “It’s just a sprain.”

Across the line, Nightwing lets out what might be a sigh of relief.

“I’m swinging by Park and 14th Ave, en-route to your tracker. I should be there in under five.”

That’s less time than Red might have liked to mentally prepare himself for being fussed over, but it’s better than nothing.

“See you soon.”

Red clicks the line back off and stares out at the view of Gotham that the relatively high rooftop gives him. It’s not bad, so he lets himself bask in the neon glow for the last few minutes of alone time he’s likely to have for a while.

Right on time, a blur of blue and black arcs through the air, anchored by the corner of the building Red is perched on top of. Sooner than Red would have done, Nightwing releases his line, turning his momentum into a mid-air somersault which then morphs into a roll across the gravel rooftop. He comes to a stop in just about the closest thing to a three-point landing that Red has ever seen from someone who wasn’t literally Superman.

It looks ridiculous.

Red rolls his eyes in a movement so exaggerated that there’s no way Nightwing can’t see it through the domino.

“Are you my knight in shining armor?” Red snarks.

Nightwing turns his landing to something like a bow, bringing a hand to his chest and extending the other in a wide flourish.

“Are you in need of one, my good sir?” His arm is still outstretched. His head tilts to an angle that might be imploring or mocking.

“Oh my god,” Red groans. “Stop it.”

Nightwing pulls out of the ridiculous pose and moves to sit by Red, folding his legs under himself.

“Which ankle was it?” Nightwing asks.

“The left.” Red moves it slightly, suppressing his wince. “It’s not that bad though. Honestly, I just didn’t want to swing back and risk another bad landing.”

Nightwing’s domino shifts in a way that tells Red he’s raising an eyebrow at that.

Under duress, Red will admit he perhaps has something of a history of not being the most truthful about his bodily wellbeing. Maybe.

From Nightwing’s expression, there’s little doubt that he’s thinking the same thing.

“We’ll just have to be careful not to jostle that one then,” he says. Nightwing reaches a hand across Red’s outstretched legs and lays it on the offending ankle. The boots are probably too thick for him to be able to feel anything through them, so Red would bet that it’s a gesture meant to comfort more than anything else.

“Did Harley do this?” Nightwing asks. It’s quiet enough that Red wonders if it was even directed at him in the first place.

“Not really.” Red watches the hand tighten on his ankle, bracing him. “She got in a lucky swing that I just barely dodged. I misjudged how close the edge of the roof was.”

Almost imperceptibly, Nightwing shifts closer to him. It’s not egregious enough for Red to call him on it, so he lets it pass without comment.

“As much as I’d love to sit here all night,” Red starts. “This ankle isn’t going to ice itself.”

As if startled out of thought, Nightwing jolts and sits up.

Red spares a passing regret for the removal of Nightwing’s hand from his ankle, but not much more than that.

“We’re pretty far from the mansion. But I have a safehouse close by?” Nightwing offers.

Red makes a show of deliberating.

Despite their medical training, Alfred really is the best person to go to in these situations. But a safehouse would be _closer_, and Red really wants to get his ankle out of the boot before it swells up and removing it becomes even _more _painful.

“Sure,” he says, making to stand.

Nightwing has none of it.

Before Red can get more than a foot off of the ground, Nightwing is there with an arm braced against his back, helping him upright. When Red is balanced on his right foot, he loops an arm around Nightwing’s neck for stability and lets himself lean into all that black and blue.

Six years ago – probably even four years ago – Red would have sooner stitched up his own spleen hole than let Nightwing see this kind of vulnerability.

They really have come a long way. It’s a thought that makes itself known to Red every now and then. Red is slightly bewildered to find that the feeling of incredulity accompanying it decreases every time. And in its place…

“How far is this safehouse?” Red asks.

“Not too far – maybe a block or two?”

Red leans a little farther into Nightwing. “Are we going to do this the usual way, or…?”

“The usual way is fine.” Nightwing says. He takes half of Red’s weight as they make their way to the edge of the roof. “I _have_ gotten Hood off of a few rooftops like this.”

One arm around the passenger’s torso, the other bearing the weight of two people _and _handling the grapple. It’s a perfectly respectful – if unsustainable – method of transporting injured or unconscious vigilantes.

Red was both, the last time they did this.

Though considering that _that_ time Red had just been sliced open, had his arm dislocated, and been kicked out a window by Ra’s al Ghul…

He’d take the current circumstances over _those_ ones any day.

“Was he conscious?” Red asks.

Sometimes it seems like there’s a constant competition between Gotham’s vigilantes to see who can be the most obnoxiously stubborn. In Red’s experience, Hood _easily_ takes that particular cake.

Nightwing laughs. “Do you think I’d still be alive if he had been?”

“Point.”

“Alright.” Nightwing’s arm tightens, his hand curling around Red’s side. He leans down a fraction of an inch, Red does himself the favor of not trying to triangulate where that puts Nightwing’s mouth in relation to his. “_Hold on_.”

Red snorts. As if he wouldn’t.

Still, he brings the other arm up so that both of them are wrapped around Nightwing’s broad shoulders.

Nightwing raises his free arm and fires the grapple. With a jump, they’re suddenly pitching down through empty air, the street rushing up to meet them.

The line pulls taut, the grapple hook turned to a pivot as the arc of their movement carries them through Gotham’s skyline. It’s been years since Red kept a cowl as part of his costume, and he’s thankful for it as the cool night air ruffles his hair.

Far below, Gotham’s civilian denizens go about their business. On a Friday night in the downtown area, said business is mostly clustering around the district’s high concentration of bars.

Seeing not one but _two_ of the city’s vigilantes swinging by is enough to earn them a few drunken shouts, and Red is sure there’ll be at least a few Reddit threads trying to figure out exactly _why_ Nightwing is basically carrying him.

He makes a mental note to track them down and delete them later. Red may have resigned himself to Oracle having footage of embarrassing moments like this, but he’ll be damned if he lets random civilians get their hands on that sort of kryptonite.

Before long, Nightwing slows their travel speed significantly and Red finds himself being set down on a balcony. It’s attached to one of Gotham’s nicer buildings – they’re still basically Downtown, after all – and thankfully it’s both high and dark enough that neither of them really have to worry about curious onlookers spotting them.

Red leans back against the wall as Nightwing begins the surprisingly complicated process of taking one of his gloves off.

When Red glances to the side, the windows on the apartment are wide and dark; tinted, bulletproof glass if Red had to guess. Not that the odds on that are bad – Nightwing _is_ still an overly paranoid vigilante just like the rest of them.

Nightwing places his hand on a security panel to the side of the apartment’s door. On the screen, a blue rectangle flashes before the panel gives off a small, confirmatory beep.

“And we’re in,” Nightwing says.

Red rolls his eyes. He’s only partway through pushing himself off the wall when suddenly Nightwing’s arm is supporting him again.

“I’ve got it,” Red insists.

“I know.” Nightwing reaches up to brush Red’s too-long bangs behind one ear. His ungloved hand is warm against Red’s forehead. “But there’s nothing wrong with a little help every now and then.”

He says it so _earnestly_ that all that old bitterness barely has a chance to rise before it’s overtaken by the rush of pure, uncomplicated _affection_ that Red feels for this man.

He wonders, vaguely, when that started happening again.

“Alright, alright,” Red concedes, letting Nightwing take his weight. “Are we going to go in at some point tonight, or…?”

Nightwing laughs and reaches for the door handle.

It swings open easily, and Nightwing guides him inside, depositing him on a conveniently-placed couch and flicking on the lights.

The golden glow of incandescence fills the room, reflecting softly off of dark leather couches.

Nightwing sets Red on the closest of them before walking off in the direction that Red assumes leads to his first aid kit.

For his part, Red lays back against the cushions and starts fishing around in his utility belt for his bottle of solvent.

Ever since he was Robin, Red has kept his supplies meticulously organized, even to the point of impressing Batman on occasion. The small bottle is exactly where he expected it would be, tucked away in its own separate compartment just behind the pocket where he keeps his smoke pellets.

Two drops on each side of the mask, rubbed in with still-gloved fingers. It’s enough to loosen the edges, and another couple of drops has the mask peeling off of Tim’s face.

He lays it on the coffee table and rubs at the skin around his eyes. No matter how many prototypes he makes of the glue for the masks, it always leaves a slight bit of irritation behind. Sure, it’ll be gone by the time he needs to be Timothy Drake-Wayne, acting CEO, but until then he’ll just have to deal with the slight sting prickling across his skin.

Dick reenters the room with an ace bandage, what looks like an ice pack, and a bottle that’s probably full of pain meds. He’s removed his own mask and remaining glove in the spare minute since Tim last saw him.

Tim’s been through this rodeo more than once, so he props himself up against the arm of the couch and starts the slightly complicated process of getting his boot off of his foot without making everything worse.

“Hey, hey, none of that,” Dick says. He shifts the supplies to one hand and places the other where Tim is working, stilling Tim’s progress. “I’ve got the better angle; let me do it.”

There is a whisper of a hurt, self-defeating _no_ echoing around the back of Tim’s skull, but he does his best to quiet it. Dick isn’t wrong about the angle. And recently Tim _has_ been trying not to endanger his health and wellbeing over his own bruised pride.

He pulls his hands away from the boot, raising them in mock-surrender.

Dick places his hands around the injured leg, lifting it as he pivots to sit on the couch. Like this, Tim is still against the couch’s arm, but Dick had made space for himself in the area formerly occupied by Tim’s injured leg. The leg itself rests in Dick’s lap as he works the boot off Tim’s foot so carefully that Tim can barely feel it.

Once he finally has it off, Tim leans to rest his head against the couch’s back, letting Dick gently prod at his ankle as he assesses the damage.

“It’s not the worst I’ve ever seen,” Dick says. “But I’ve definitely seen better.”

“With the amount of mid-air bullshit you like to pull, I’m pretty sure none of us will ever beat your record for the most colorful ankle,” Tim snarks.

“Hey,” Dick says. “It took hard _work_ to turn my ankle the same color as my suit.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure it was _entirely_ intentional,” Tim laughs.

“Are you questioning the artist’s methods?”

“More like the artist’s sense of self preservation.”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t that my line?”

“I’m pretty sure you stole it from Alfred.”

“Touché,” Dick smiles. “Though I’d argue that I have a better track record of getting you to actually submit to medical care.”

“Don’t let _him_ hear you say that. He might take it as a challenge or something.”

“You know, if it results in you _actually_ bothering to get help when you need it, I wouldn’t really mind.”

Tim knows from experience that there’s no winning _that_ one.

Dick knows this too. He shoots Tim a small, beatific smile before feeling around the inner edge of the suit’s pantleg. What he’s looking for is the hidden zipper that tends to come standard even in custom suits, and it’s a point of pride for Tim’s design work that Dick takes more than a minute to find it.

Eventually, he manages to unzip the lower leg of the Red Robin suit.

The air in the apartment isn’t objectively cold, but the suits are well-insulated. In what can’t be anything but unconscious, the smallest finger of Dick’s hand trails along Tim’s overwarm skin; a point of near-burning heat against the comparative chill of the air.

Tim shivers, but not only from the cold.

With the unzipped pantleg folded up and out of the way, Dick finally grabs for the ace bandage. They’ve done this enough times – on themselves and others – that the process of wrapping Tim’s ankle is quick and rote.

Tim watches Dick’s hands as the bandage loops around his ankle, the arch of his foot, layering over and over itself.

They’re nice hands, he thinks. Hands that are strong enough to break Bane’s nose with a well-placed punch, but gentle enough to rub small circles into the tender parts of Tim’s ankle as he ties tucks the end of the bandage back into itself. Hands that hold onto Tim’s leg perhaps a moment longer than strictly necessary.

“Unless you feel like sleeping in uniform tonight,” Dick starts. “We should probably get changed.” He looks off towards the hallway leading deeper into the apartment. “I think I have some of your stuff somewhere around here…”

“How did you manage that?” Tim asks. “It’s not like I’ve been here before to leave it behind.”

If Tim didn’t know better, he’d say that Dick looks almost _embarrassed_.

“Um…”

It’s not often that Dick’s at a loss for words.

“Just in case, you know?” Dick runs a hand through the back of his hair. His smile would be bashful if he weren’t using the expression to cover up a different one. “I’ve probably got some of Jason’s and Damian’s clothes too.”

“… oh.” Tim catches himself where he’d been leaning closer into Dick’s space. He backs up as subtly as possible, pressing himself back against the armrest. “I guess that makes sense.”

Carefully, Dick extricates himself from where he’d essentially been sitting between Tim’s legs.

A significant part of Tim expects him to retreat farther into the apartment without another word.

Instead, Dick turns once he steadies himself on his feet. One of his strong, careful hands extends towards Tim, palm facing up.

“Come on,” Dick says. “I’ll help. You’re not getting out of that costume with a sprained ankle. Or, knowing you, I guess you probably could. But not _easily_.”

Tim has absolutely gotten out of (and _in to_) his suit with injuries much worse than this. But Dick’s expression just looks so _hopeful…_

Tim very much wishes he was still wearing the domino mask, even though he knows it would do little to hide the blush quickly taking over his face.

Instead, he coughs into his hand, half surprise and half concealment.

“Uh, sure,” Tim says once he finally can bring himself to look up at Dick.

He takes the hand, and Dick pulls him up off the couch and close enough for Dick to loop an arm around his back (_again_).

Unconsciously, Tim leans into it, balancing on his good leg.

Once they reach the safehouse’s seldom-used bedroom, Dick goes rooting through a nearby set of drawers. Tim sits on the bed, shrugging out of the top half of the Red Robin suit.

While he’s half-distracted, a shirt comes flying out of nowhere and smacks him in the face.

Tim splutters for a moment, but when he looks up, Dick is still digging around in the back of his dresser. Tim takes that as a sign that he should probably put on the new shirt before Dick turns back around and he has to feel embarrassed about having so much skin showing or something.

Which is markedly ridiculous. They’ve changed in the same room (or cave) hundreds, if not thousands of times, and there’s absolutely nothing different about this one. Nothing at all.

Still, Tim is quick about it. The shirt _does_ seem to be one of his – though probably one from a few years ago based on the way it stretches tightly across his shoulders. It’s a little flattering, really; both that he’s built up enough muscle to make his younger self feel jealous and that this shirt is pretty old but _Dick still has it._

He wonders if it might even be from before he left Gotham, all that time ago.

“Any luck finding pants?” Tim asks.

Another few pieces of clothing fall to the floor, dislodged by Dick’s rummaging.

“… none of yours,” Dick says, turning. In one hand, he has a pair of what might be sweatpants. In the other, a rumpled ball of indeterminate articles of clothing. He tosses the sweatpants to Tim in a gentle arc, making it easy enough for Tim to snatch them out of the air.

“Hold on a second,” Dick says, tossing the rest of it onto the corner of the bed. “I’ll give you a hand after I get out of this.

Before Tim can so much as open his mouth to protest, Dick already has the Nightwing costume off.

Tim raises an eyebrow, leaning back just a bit.

This nighttime hobby doesn’t exactly accommodate for slow costume changes, but even by their standards _that_ was fast. _Especially_ when you factor in how skin-tight the Nightwing suit is in the first place…

Not that Tim is left with much brainpower to contemplate that, given the way that Dick is standing not even five feet away from him in nothing but a pair of snug, black briefs.

He seems too distracted untangling the ball of clothes to notice Tim’s staring – which is good, since Tim can’t look away.

But when he collects the courage to glance lower than Dick’s face – and lower still – he nearly loses it.

It starts as a chuckle small enough for Tim to hide behind his hand, but before long laughter’s bubbled up through his chest to the point where Tim falls back against the bed, clutching his stomach.

Holding a newly separated tanktop in one hand and a pair of shorts in the other, Dick looks up, staring quizzically at Tim.

“Do I want to know…?” Dick asks.

Once Tim finally gets himself under enough control to get words out, he responds, “You – _ha_ – _don’t_ know?”

“…no?”

“Dick,” Tim says, propping himself up on his elbows. “There’s no way you can convince me you’re _not_ aware that you’re wearing your own merch under your costume.”

Dick looks down quickly, eyebrows raising when he sees what Tim has been laughing at.

The briefs aren’t _just_ black – they also have the Nightwing symbol in all its aggressively blue glory emblazoned right across the crotch.

“Huh,” Dick says. “What do you know.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Only you.”

Dick smiles and shrugs, pulling on the tank top. “It’s not my fault you don’t have any Red Robin gear, Tim.”

“It’s not my fault you don’t have standards,” Tim shoots back, still laughing.

“I take offense at that. I only wear the _highest_ quality Nightwing apparel,” Dick insists. “Besides, I have it on _good_ authority that Bruce owns a full set of Batman pajamas that he’ll only wear when none of us are staying at the mansion.”

“Unless your source is Alfred, I _highly_ doubt that.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Dick says, leaning down to pull the shorts on over his briefs.

Tim moves to start pulling off the bottom half of his costume.

Next to him, Dick stands up straight, moving to press Tim’s hands to stillness against his hips.

“Stop that,” he says. “If you mess up your ankle more, you’ll be stuck with me for _even longer_.”

Tim groans dramatically. “I _suppose_ you have a point.”

“So let me help,” Dick says, a soft smile curving its way along the seam of his mouth.

“Ugh, _fine_.” Tim slips his hands out from under Dick’s, trying not to stiffen (or worse, to lean into it) when Dick’s hands move to bracket his hips just above the line where his costume is folded down.

Tim leans back on his arms once more, bracing his good foot on the floor. He lifts off the bed when Dick signals to do so, and Dick pulls the costume off of him. He’s mostly efficient about it, but by the time he’s gotten to Tim’s injured leg, he’s slowed down so much that Tim feels like his entire body must have turned to porcelain without him knowing about it.

“You can go a bit faster than that,” he says, motioning for Dick to get on with it.

“I _could_,” Dick agrees. “But then I wouldn’t get to see the cute way that your eyebrow twitches when you start getting annoyed.”

He’s not wrong.

Tim smacks him lightly on the forehead.

“You _ass_,” Tim says, though without much heat.

_Finally,_ Dick finishes pulling the costume off of him, letting it fall to join the Nightwing suit on the bedroom floor.

Tim’s suddenly glad he’d put on the shirt earlier.

“Sweatpants next?” Dick asks.

Tim nods, and Dick reaches for them.

This time, Tim gets his good leg through first and rocks his weight forward until he’s standing on it. He leans on Dick for support as he maneuvers his injured ankle through. Thankfully, there’s no elastic on the bottom of these ones, so it’s easy enough.

Not even two seconds after Tim finishes, Dick flops back into the bed, pulling Tim with him in a move that looks spontaneous but is probably obsessively calculated to avoid jostling his injured leg.

Tim goes along with it, letting Dick pull him down to the mattress.

There are no blankets to speak of, but it’s summer and Tim is already warm enough. He does reach for a pillow though, pulling it close enough to prop his head up on.

Dick reaches for another, maneuvering it until he’s lying parallel to Tim, his hand barely an inch from Tim’s own.

“Hey,” he says, smiling.

“Hey,” Tim responds.

Dick reaches for Tim’s hand, folding it within his own.

Tim lets him, though he tries to force back the heat rising to his face.

“I was kinda surprised you called for help tonight,” Dick says, not breaking eye contact.

“Honestly? So was I.”

“Were you not… planning to? When you got hurt?” Dick tries to hide it, but Tim knows him well enough to see the undercurrent of distress in his expression.

The look hits Tim where it hurts, slipping beneath his ribs to lodge itself in his heart.

He sighs, smiling sadly at Dick. “I’d be lying if I said it was my first plan.”

This time Dick hides it better, but the hurt is still clear enough on his face.

“So why the change?” he asks.

Tim pauses, staring up at the smooth, white ceiling.

“I guess I’ve just been thinking a lot,” he says. “About crimefighting and Gotham. About partnerships, and about having each other’s backs.”

“That sounds like a lot of thinking.”

“I guess.” Tim looks back to Dick. He separates their hands until only the tips of his fingers are touching Dick’s and trails them down the length of Dick’s hand with a whisper-light touch. Vaguely, he notes the way that Dick’s eyes flutter at the contact.

“But it needs to be done,” Tim finishes.

When Dick speaks again, his voice is low and soft. “Did that big brain of yours come to any conclusions?” he asks.

“Not anything new,” Tim says. His fingers slip between Dick’s longer ones. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while, actually.”

Dick’s hand tenses and untenses, like he’s itching to move but holding himself back. Gently, Tim presses forward until their palms meet once more, this time with his fingers interlaced with Dick’s.

“I think I’m ready to stay in Gotham on a full-time basis, but I also think I’m getting a little tired of the solo act.”

Dick stifles what might be a sharp inhale or what could have been his first, overrash reaction. He hides it well, but the way he tightens his grip on Tim’s hand is telling enough.

“From a logistics perspective,” Dick says, his tone too even to be casual. “It’s kinda hard to be a lone wolf in a city _this_ full of vigilantes. Though we both know Bruce _tries_.”

Tim laughs beneath his breath, ducking his head into his pillow. “Don’t let _him_ hear you say that.”

“Too late. He already knows what I think.” Dick leans forward, farther into Tim’s space. Like a planet spiraling around a star, Tim feels pulled in by the force of his gravity.

“Are you serious though?” Dick asks. “You’re thinking of coming back?”

Tim always forgets how ridiculously _blue_ Dick’s eyes are; like the vast, unknowable ocean on a bright, cloudless day. The way they’re framed by long, dark lashes. Tim feels his breath catch and his heart stutter. They’re close enough that he and Tim could breathe the same air.

“I’ve set up a couple of more permanent safe houses and linked my main Gotham base to the Batcomputer’s network,” he says. Which gives Bruce and the rest of the Bats more unrestricted access than they’ve had to Tim in years. There’s no question about how big of a step closer to the family that would take him.

“So, you’re really not kidding?” Dick asks.

“No, I’m not.”

Dick’s smile is the soft sunlight on the horizon just before daybreak.

“That’s fantastic, Tim,” he says, pulling their joined hands closer to him in his excitement. “It’ll be great to have you around for more than just the occasional weekend.”

Tim finds himself following the pull on his hand, shifting closer to where Dick is lying. There can’t be more than a foot between them.

“It’ll be good to be home,” Tim says. He tries not to dwell too long on the way the word ‘home’ causes the light to spark in Dick’s eyes. “But that brings me to my other point.”

“And what’s that?” Dick asks, half distracted.

“I’m tired of trying to go it alone,” Tim says. He spreads his fingers to get a bit of distance, but Dick won’t let go. “And I’ve been thinking that it’d be nice to have a partner again.”

“Tim – ”

Tim’s heart flips over in his chest. He speaks more quickly than necessary, just trying to get it all out in the open air.

“Hear me out first,” he insists. “Bruce has mostly taken over Damian’s training these days”

“_Tim – _”

“Which means you’re a lot freer,” Tim cuts him off. “I _know_ you can work on your own, but don’t try to tell me you don’t miss the partnership thing. Besides, it’ll give you someone to talk to so that you don’t bother Oracle until she shuts you out of the comm system again.”

“_Hey!”_ Dick says, mouth caught between amusement and indignation. “That was one… okay, _two_ times.”

Tim tries to hide his laugh. “_Which_ is why I think it’d be a good idea for you to… I don’t know, think about it or something? Going back to the partner thing? With me?”

Dick separates their hands.

Against his better instincts, Tim closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see Dick’s expression if he’s about to let Tim down easy.

Which is why it’s something of a surprise when the hand that had previously been holding Tim’s comes to rest on the side of his face, cupping his jaw.

“_Tim_,” Dick insists.

Slowly, _reluctantly_, Tim opens his eyes once more.

Dick’s smile is small and so _so_ hopeful.

“I’ve been _waiting_ for you to ask,” Dick says. “Of _course_ the answer is yes.”

The words crash over Tim like the sea, choppy waves sweeping him up in the current of his own emotion. And, in a move many in the vigilante community would probably describe as uncharacteristic, Tim launches himself forward, wrapping his arms around Dick’s chest as he buries his face against Dick’s collarbone.

Dick laughs even as he pulls Tim in tighter, slipping a leg between Tim’s, his arms encircling Tim’s back and his neck curving to hook his chin over top of Tim’s head. 

The heat he throws off makes it seem like Tim’s hugging a furnace, and he feels completely surrounded in the best way possible.

Dick breathes deeply, rubbing a hand up and down Tim’s spine. He feels Dick smile against his hair.

Tim’s own smile is pressed right against Dick’s collarbone.

An errant thought flits through his head, and Tim wonders how easy it might be to press his lips to Dick’s skin. To trail them upwards and bite at the edge of his jaw. To meet his lips.

Distantly, Tim tries to shoo the impulse away, but, like a single spark in a field of dry grass, it catches.

Suddenly it hits him. The warmth pressed up against his chest, wrapped around his back, slotted in between his legs is _Dick_. The warmth of all that hard, toned muscle is suddenly _scorching_. The smooth, rhythmic motion of Dick’s hand trailing down his spine feels like a brand.

Tim puts everything he has into controlling his breathing and heartrate, but he’s sure he’s pressed close enough to Dick that he can feel every second of it.

Above him, Dick pulls away just far enough that he can look at Tim.

They’re close enough that Tim’s eyes have trouble focusing, but he can hear the tremble in Dick’s breath and feel the warmth of each exhale against his lips.

“Dick –” Tim starts.

It’s as far as he gets.

The moment Tim’s mouth opens, Dick covers it with his own, pressing their lips together in a soft crush of a kiss.

It’s barely even registered in Tim’s mind that _this _is happening when his body takes over. He presses up into it, meeting Dick’s kiss with a fervor that even he wasn’t unexpecting.

Dick inhales his surprise as Tim pushes the offensive, catching Dick off guard as he flips both of them until he’s on top of Dick, straddling him.

With the new angle, Tim tilts his head to deepen the kiss. His tongue traces the back of Dick’s teeth and his hand comes up to thread fingers through Dick’s hair.

The moan Dick gives him is quiet and barely-there, but Tim catches it in his mouth and savors it.

When he eventually pulls back, it isn’t without taking the opportunity to bite Dick’s lower lip first.

As Tim stares down at him, he notes that the lip is as pleasantly swollen as the rest of Dick’s mouth.

His hands brace lightly on Dick’s toned chest. Dick’s hips are pressed right up against the insides of Tim’s legs. Tim sinks back until he’s sitting in Dick’s lap.

Beneath Tim’s hands, he feels the way that Dick’s chest expands and contracts with each inhale and exhale. He feels the beat of Dick’s heart as it jackrabbits between his lungs.

“I guess it’s my turn to admit I wasn’t sure how you’d respond,” Dick says, once he’s finally caught his breath.

“Could there have been any doubt?” Tim asks.

“Well…”

“_Dick_,” Tim chuckles. “It feels like I’ve been waiting for that nearly my entire life.”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “Hopefully not your _entire_ life?”

“No, not quite,” Tim shakes his head, laughing. “But enough of it.”

Dick pushes himself up until he’s sitting on the bed with Tim still spread across his legs. He brings his hand to the back of Tim’s head, pulling him in until he can press a firm kiss to Tim’s forehead.

“Always full of surprises,” he mumbles against Tim’s skin.

“Maybe not so much,” Tim says, backing up until they can lock eyes again. “Everyone always told me I was pretty obvious about it.”

He doesn’t want to say that Dick _pouts_, but it’s honestly the best way that Tim can describe it.

“Why am I always the last to know these things?” Dick asks.

“Probably the same reason why I _really_ wasn’t expecting you to kiss me first.”

“… because we’re both oblivious idiots who couldn’t detective our way out of a wet paper bag?”

Tim’s smile edges its way into a smirk. “You sound like Babs,” he says.

“_Seriously,_” Dick groans. “She talked to you _too?_”

Tim shrugs. “Something along the lines of ‘if I have to hear that level of unresolved sexual tension on the comm lines for _one_ more patrol, I’m going to leak _both_ of your locations to one of those Wayne Heirs fanclubs _every damn hour of the day’_.”

Dick pulls a face. “I believe her.”

They both laugh at that; partially out of shared understanding, partially out of the sheer, unbridled terror that comes with being threatened by a woman with a surveillance system that would make the NSA weep and a trolling streak a mile wide.

“Do you think this counts as resolving sexual tension?” Tim asks, once they’ve worked their way back to coherent English.

“Hmmmm,” Dick muses. His hands drift down Tim’s back until he can sink his fingers beneath the elastic of Tim’s borrowed sweatpants. “I’m not sure.”

Tim feels heat rush up through his chest to pool at the back of his neck. His eyes fall half lidded, and he leans forward until he can press his forehead to Dick’s. Over top of the tank top, his hands trace Dick’s sides, drifting up to rest on his shoulders. 

“Well,” Tim says, ducking down to press a small, closed-mouth kiss to Dick’s lips. “We have all night to figure it out.”

Against Tim’s lips, Dick smiles. “I like the sound of that,” he says, sinking back against the bed.

There’s nothing Tim wants more than to follow.

So he does.

* * *

Dick wakes up from a warm, contented haze to the sound of Tim swearing more colorfully than most of Gotham's criminals.

"What is it?" he asks, somewhat groggily.

Tim turns to look at him from where he's sitting on the edge of the bed. He holds up his leg. In the soft morning light, the dark purple edge of the contusion peeks out just above the edge of the bandage.

"We forgot to fucking ice it," Tim growls.

"Not to diminish your pain," Dick starts. "But arguably that just means more time in bed."

He wiggles his eyebrows outrageously.

Tim looks like he's torn between laughing and smothering Dick with a pillow. "You're the worst," he says.

"You love me anyway," Dick snarks, winking.

"God knows why," Tim sighs. It's easily in the top five most exasperated sighs Dick has ever heard.

But it doesn't take away from the fond way that Tim looks at him when he says it.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is adapted from [My Sparrow](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/56989/my-sparrow) by Dan Chelotti which is fantastic and vaguly trippy. 
> 
> If you want to help me scream about these dumbasses, I'm also on [tumblr](https://vellaphoria.tumblr.com/) \o/


End file.
